Page 25 of Some Like It Scot
Getting paid to bungle things? What a strange job!
And one I felt much too qualified for.
Without the videos and social media and travel parts.
Katie walked past me toward Craighill, its tower rising in the distance over the next hill, and I followed, mind spinning with more questions than I’d ever voice. From the longing in those eyes and the curb of sadness in her words, of all the people at Craighill, Katie Campbell’s story may be the only one worth hearing.
Chapter 6
Katie
Walking into a live-action scene of a Clue game was odd.
Especially when one was dressed more like a lost camper than a 1920s Tudor mansion guest.
At least that’s what it felt like as I turned the corner of the hallway into the lower salon of the manor house and met a collection of people poised as if waiting for the game to begin.
Not that I could pass for Miss Scarlet in the dining room with the candlestick.
Though Mrs. Lennox’s daughter, Ana, certainly gave off Miss Scarlet vibes as she reclined on one of the chairs by the fireplace wearing an elegant red gown—especially the way she stared at the man by the bookshelf in a pinstriped suit. With his wire-rim glasses and slicked-back blond hair, he had to be Professor Plum.
I chuckled. Hmm... Who else?
The middle-aged man wearing a white button-down and beige trousers by one of the large windows gave off hints of Colonel Mustard—all the way to his shoe brush mustache—though he did have a bit of class about him.
Then there was the young woman with wild curly brown hair who looked like she was, well, examining a piece of pottery on the mantel with a magnifying glass in hand. Mrs. Peacock, perhaps. After extensively viewing as many seasons ofDownton AbbeyandUpstairs Downstairsthat would fit on my lengthy flight from Australia, I could confidently say that her simple blue dress looked era appropriate.
My lips inched wide. Okay, I was pushing the Clue comparison a bit too far.
Three women, two men. Those numbers couldn’t be right.
And then I remembered Mark... and my stomach cramped with annoyance. I’d known the man through our mutual contacts for a year, and apart from the disastrous moment on a streetlamp-lit evening under an umbrella in London, things had remained professionally distant.
But he’d rescued me, unintentionally, from a conversation with a horrendous travel agent by asking if I knew where the bathrooms were, and then we’d found a pub, had coffees, and... he kissed me. Well, tried to kiss me.
But sometimes the loneliness felt heavier than other times. And the atmosphere was somewhat romantic. And I was wearing a cute dress with flats, so we were almost the same height. And he’d complimented my hair.
I blame the ambience of lantern light on glossy pavement—it seems pretty powerful in classic movies.
Thank the good Lord for the double-decker bus distraction from prolonging the encounter or the kiss. Because the whole incident brought forth his true colors from beneath the umbrella and shocked me back to my senses. Loneliness was preferable to boorish and conceited company any day.
I tipped a little farther around the doorframe, my very un-Clue-like body half hidden, to get a better look for any other occupants in the room.
“Miss Campbell?”
I spun from my spot, nearly decapitating a bust of some possible war hero on the table nearby. Mrs. Lennox approached from the hallway, her peach lace dress giving off all theDownton Abbeyvibes, though I’m not sure a white feathered stole matched the Crawleys, but who was I to say?
I currently wore vegetable-covered bright yellow wellies and carried a fishing pole.
Which may have been why Mrs. Lennox’s smile tightened into some sort of terrifying imitation of my aunt Maude the first time I showed up at church wearing trousers. Thatwhat could you possibly be thinking?mixed withwait until I speak to your mothertype of look.
“If I’d been able to find you, I would have properly prepared you for meeting the rest of the guests.” Her gaze trailed down me.
“I still don’t have anything to wear except a gown that’s too tight in the chest and rises above my calf.” I scrunched up my shoulders. “And I think I may break some sort of Edwardian rule by wearing that in public, because the men might actuallyseemy calves.”
Instead of the joke inspiring Mrs. Lennox’s natural smile, her brows crashed together. “Oh, well, we certainly can’t have that, can we? I do feel that the guests we have with us are the honorable sort, but I wouldn’t put much stock in the staff to keep things aboveboard.” She tapped her lips and gave me another once-over. “Well, until I can secure a seamstress, I’ve had Mrs. March order you something appropriate from”—she lowered her voice—“Amazon. They promise to deliver the items here within the next two days, which will bide us some time for any alterations of the other gowns.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” I tugged out the card Mirren had given me and offered it to her. “This is a local seamstress who comes highly recommended. And the clerk in the bookshop assured me she works fast too.”
